Other stuff

Archive for August, 2009

In under ten hours I shall be away to yet another venue with no actual internet access. As such, I imagine that updates around these parts arelikely to become more than a little sporadic. Please don’t try to break the internet any more than it already is in my absence. Thanks to you, you big gay bears.

It had been my intention to write up a full report of my findings in Edinburgh during the last few days. Having spent the past hour trying to reconnect my Orange dial up account (every six months, just so I can keep one ancient email address – is it worth it? No, no it isn’t. This also means any missives sent in the past five or six days via this site have still not been seen by me) I no longer have the time or will power to do this. Instead I present to you a brief listing of what I remember liking or disliking in as chronological an order as I can recall.

Pappy’s Fun Club – Brilliant. Probably the high point for me. Silliness abounds.

Camille something or other – I’m not going to look it up. Incredible voice, competent backing band, appalling song choices. I was literally squirming throughout most of it, particularly when she turned Five Years into a fecking torch song. Low point for me, though those around me seemed to enjoy watching a grown man wince.

Simon Munnery’s AGM – Magnificent as always. Not as much recycled material as I experienced a few years back, which was doubly surprising as it was barely six months since last I saw him.

Will Hodgson – Great storyteller in a Daniel Kitson vein. Not side splitting, but a good hearted collection of tales.

Andrew Lawrence – First time I’d seen him, so knew what to expect. Not as shocking as he thinks he is, but some spectacularly choregraphed rants in there.

Maxwell’s Full Mooners – Ahh, cabaret. Maxwell was a good compere, though I’d heard a fair amount of the material a couple of nights beforehand. Glenn Wool was very funny, though I can’t really remember a single gag. Miss Behave provided sword swallowing and filth amusingly. The Cuban Boys interpretation of the wrestling scene from Women in Love will forever be etched in my mind (and was nearly imprinted on my face if that fat naked arse had slipped in front of me). Phil Kay always amuses me, whatever he does. Can’t remember the singing lasses name, though she was alright. There was someone else, but I can’t recall who. Think they were quite good.

The Tiger Lillies – Glorious. Been wanting to see them live for nigh on a decade now. Very happy to report that they didn’t disappoint.

The Pajama Men – Very very impressive. Two men (well, three, but one provides musical accompinament), about a dozen characters each, all woven into one hour long story whilst wearing pajamas. I highly recommend giving them a look.

Munnery’s Free Thing – It probably had a proper title, but it escapes me. Mr. Munnery had plugged it at his AGM as a last minute thing (it was unlisted and thereby, sadly, under attended). He ran through a few of his classics as compere and introduced a couple of poets (names withheld by my memory) adn (I think it was) Janey Godley (?). She was fine I suppose.

Late Night Gimp Fight – Student revue performed by men in their late twenties, early thirties. Not as bad as the title would suggest, though the gimp costumes were those of Mexican wrestlers, which was a bit of a shame.

Just the Tonic – Late night late nightness, compered on the night I was in attendance by Phil Kay, who I still find to be effortlessly funny, even when drinking his own effluent. Ivan Brackenbury was the first turn, which was amusing in its one note way – not sure I could have managed a full hour. Second was Charlie Chuck (Uncle Peter from The Smell of Reeves & Mortimer) whose inspired lunacy had me close to rolling on the floor. Kay refused to leave the stage during the interview and, being on the front row as I was, I couldn’t really leave to go to the toilet, in spite of my lager filled bladder. I even made him a plectrum out of a ticket when he complained about his guitar strumming finger hurting. Final act of the fest for me was a magician called Peter Firmin or something like that. Good tricks and some funny patter, though no Sadowitz. Being in the aisle seat at the front, I ended up on stage to fire a party popper at the climax of the act, which I just managed, in spite of the pain in my groin. Thankfully things were wrapped up quickly after that and I got to empty myself shortly afterward.

I’m reasonably certain that I’ve missed something or someone out from all that, but my mind is spent. Take my recommendations as you wish, but remember that I am the arbiter and that they are all correct at time of writing. Ooh yeah.

Sounds oddly like the title to a Viz annual doesn’t it. Hmm, anyhoo, it being my birthday tomorrow I thought I’d record for posterity the two moments that caused me to spiral into depression about how old I am this year.

1. Discovering that the murderous members of the Manson Family were a good decade younger than me when they commited their atrocities. This piece of information oddly sent me into a light haze of misery, pondering how much they had done at such an early age, compared to the amorphous, uneventful blob that is my own existence. Thankfully any murderous thoughts were quelled by the information that I’m still a year younger than Charlie was when he was imprisoned, so its not all bad.

2. A girl who normally only works Saturdays has started working during the week too. Upon seeing her for the first time I thought to myself ‘She’s quite cute, though I bet she’s half my age,’ as I often do when seeing attractive youth, in an attempt to bleakly amuse myself. Later on that day, she was brought up in conversation and it was mentioned that she’s probably only actually sixteen. It slowly dawned on me that by midnight tonight I will actually be twice age. I’m hoping that this is the first time this has happened and that I haven’t been letching at under age tweens. God. I really hope I haven’t.

At least next year I’m likely to be heartened by thoughts that I’ll have out lived Christ. Now does anyone want to join my cult?

Okay, that post one below this one, yeah. Ignore that. I’m exhausted and have wonky fingers that can’t type proper like. What’s it about? Well you see, its the only new response I received when requesting that you guess which of the dreams in this Very Short Story were ones I had actually had. The correspondent guessed

Condoms, Valley & Skateboard.

They then go on, confidently –

I know I’m right.

Generally I frown upon this sort of bull headed certainty, but when its justified I’m forced to allow it. Which I’m saddened to say I must do on this occasion. All three correct in one fell swoop. The skateboard one was a recurring thing I’d get while trying to fall to sleep, but would jerk awake when I went tumbling. The valley was remarkably impressive and located between the Chalcroft and the lake. Its so long since I’ve last set foot in Luton that there’s no way that I’d know what it looks like, or even looked like, yet my brain was still convinced it was Luton. The even more unsettling part was that I appeared to be trying to get them for use on Martine McCutcheon. I don’t like my subconcious. Thankfully I awoke long before I managed to find any.

So who is this mysterious figure who knows the workings of my slumbering mind? Well, I’m proud to announce that it was . . . someone with access to a computer. It was unsigned, so I’m entirely in the dark really. The subject heading was in a foreign language, so if it was you, repeat that and I’ll give/send you something. Probably.

Right. What am I plugging this week? How about this?

That’s genius cartoonist Tony Millionaire playing God there. Its mildly amusing, but my mind’s wandering and I can’t think of anything else to slap up here this evening. I’m also obliged to try and force you to download my 80 minute mega mix yet again. Its good. And offensive. Offensive is good. You like offensive. Lap it up you fuckers.